


Burn Me First, Quench Me Until Then

by MiniOranges



Category: Black Panther (2018)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bottom T'Challa (Marvel), Erik Killmonger Lives, Falling In Love, Fix-It, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:27:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27064153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiniOranges/pseuds/MiniOranges
Summary: Erik sits alone, staring at the Wakandan sunset.He feels emptier than the first time he’d been there, like the spear to the chest was finally removed—plucked like the nuisance of a splinter, all while ready to claim eternal peace. Only no one’s around to stop him now.And it somehow makes everything worse.
Relationships: Erik Killmonger/T'Challa
Comments: 16
Kudos: 59





	Burn Me First, Quench Me Until Then

Erik sits alone, staring at the Wakandan sunset.

He feels emptier than the first time he’d been there, like the spear to the chest was finally removed—plucked like the nuisance of a splinter, all while ready to claim eternal peace. Only no one’s around to stop him now.

And it somehow makes everything worse.

* * *

Erik hates T’Challa like he hates the sun. In that looking at T’Challa blinds him, and not the good kind.

He hates T’Challa for being the way he is—the fact that he could’ve been the same. How even his birthright had to be stripped off him like that; done by his own people nonetheless. It was the only skin original to himself.

Erik can’t stand to look at T’Challa, so he never does.

Erik hates T’Challa like he hates the sun. In that assessing him always involved squinting his eyes in frustration.

They never agreed on anything, T’Challa was too idealistic for his own good. If Wakanda wanted to integrate into international politics, they needed a champion who arose from the lowest of the low; one who saw the details up-close.

Erik hates T’Challa like he hates the sun. In that he just despised the heat between them.

Sure T’Challa saved his life, but Erik never accounted for it. Even his dying wish, denied by the very same blood who refused a name to his existence. It was comical at this point. T’Challa done did that just to satiate some moral-superiority bullshit Erik definitely didn’t want to fall pawn to.

Still, he found himself falling out of options. This was all too familiar. So in the wake of his second-life, Erik readied his entirety for another challenge. Fulfilling N’Jobu’s fallen aspirations had always required great sacrifice anyway.

That don’t mean he couldn’t laugh at the situation though. Erik was practically saved by the same technologies he swore to bring havoc with. He was promised a sense of security in a kingdom that still sneered and shivered in his presence—guards and servants alike. He was brought forth as a member of the royal family, while the council meetings he pursued attendance in lingered contempt, doubt, and the occasional look of judgement.

In the core of it all, was T’Challa.

While he is not so much as a complex personality, Erik hates T’Challa in that he could never keep up with the man.

It was his idea to offer Erik a shot at redemption, starting with therapy.

"You’re out of your goddamn mind."

"I deduced that it’d be one of the first steps towards your healing, granted that I want to negotiate about opening up Wakanda to globalize our resources. Peacefully, for that matter."

"I can take care of myself cuz, put me up a gym or whatever. I don’t need no mental well-being crap. Nobody gives a shit about that out there."

"Yes, and you are exactly a product of so."

Erik’s breath hitches at that. T’Challa was rarely stern with him, taking time to ease up and pave a gentler road of alleviation to the man who’s already been given enough strain.

Said man quickly leaves without so much as a tight frown and a close attempt at violence.

He _really_ hates T’Challa exactly like he hates the sun. In that when he was stronger, Erik shielded away from him.

In the duration of his therapeutic process, T’Challa would never miss out checking-up on Erik. After particularly grueling sessions (as he’s been told by those attending to the long-lost prince), the older man would find him sitting silently, head bowed, and staring into nothingness. As if establishing their own unspoken method of communication, the king never bothered to ask, letting Erik heal himself on his own pace.

Erik hates T’Challa like he hates the sun. In that why does this motherfucker have to shed his light on everything? It’s pretentious as hell.

T’Challa wanted _his_ help without even offering _him_ a semblance of control.

Erik grew up in darkness—metaphorically. Individuals similar to him were regarded as garbages of the state, left astray to feed on the excess of their greed. He couldn’t stand T’Challa’s advocacies when they all ringed a little too familiar.

The debates were seemingly endless, one of the first stressful occurrences since Erik’s awakening. T’Challa argued with everything in him. Wakanda thrived on isolationism and self-preservation, opening it up in a fit of fury hints enough negativity for the king to allow.

It was in these situations where Erik truly saw how different they both were; how much a person’s environment and culture could shape ideology and belief despite reading the same books and being of the same kind.

And because he was tired, or just hoping for anything really, Erik allowed T’Challa a chance at his way. It surprises him as much.

It may be because he couldn’t stand to argue with the man any longer—then again, he never accounted for this life. It may be that his therapist had always been persistent in telling him to _stop_ feeling like he is owed control over everything. But it may just be because of T’Challa and the way he handles difficulty with such flourish and grace. It was something Erik never had the privilege of becoming.

Truthfully, it could be all of those reasons. But fuck, he really hates T’Challa for shedding his light on everything—illuminating a sense of hope that was so _corny_ to Erik. He is intoxicatingly overwhelmed by this. After all, he only ever learned to live in darkness.

Erik hates T’Challa like he hates the sun. In that T’Challa was annoyingly starting to grow on him, reverberating a type of warmth he never knew he needed.

After that stint with the United Nations, they were almost always together. Erik underlined where current politicians fall largely, specifying on inconsistency and deception. T’Challa was more than determined to make it a mental note, updating his cousin on the integration process and its improvements along the way. Doing so has bred a rather peculiar bond between the two men.

In the recesses between their responsibilities, T’Challa would offer to show Erik around the palace; everywhere Erik might’ve already gone to but failed to appreciate. Conversing with the man about architectonics was actually…enjoyable. Erik knew what he was talking about, both the history and the art interlaced with it. It aches T’Challa, thinking of _what could have been_. N’Jadaka truly did belong here.

Silent walks by the royal gardens lead to enthusiastic visits to the bustling city markets. Every so often, T’Challa and Shuri would invite Erik to celebrate holidays and traditional gatherings specific to Wakanda. It was drowning him in such _unidentifiable_ emotions to say the least, for where he grew up, those didn’t mean shit.

Slowly but surely, Erik was unconsciously adamant on feeling the warmth.

Over the course of a few months, a similar liking to in-depth conversations brought the two men impossibly closer. That is, if they aren’t caught up in hours of heated political discourse. But as much as the contrast in personality exists, circumstances said otherwise. Both lost a close relative they looked up to with high regard, leaving behind a gnawing sense of trauma. So alone with nothing to approximate as a lifeline; surviving only in strength.

Though T’Challa made sure to be meticulous with his approach, an heir to an empire still had the better part of growing up wealthy and secure. He can only imagine a fraction of what N’Jadaka went through.

"One thing I hate out there." Erik gestures vaguely. "Performative Activism. Y’all heard of that?"

T’Challa thinks. "I sensed."

"One of us dies—police brutality, violence against women, whatever—the media, they do this frenzy of acting like they give a fuck. They make billboards and memorabilia, hell even celebrities join in." He pauses, only to glance at the man. "But the system never changes cuz, still using our deaths for entertainment either way."

All T’Challa can do is sigh.

Stories later turned to discussions—on everything really. From politics to poetry, TV shows to book authors, the African diaspora and their struggle to prove: over systemic racism, culture, art, and the whole in between. They’d look back on their past, thinking of the situation as ridiculous and paradoxical but somehow, making sense. Like a language only fit for them, only they could understand.

Sometimes, Erik would show-up uninvited to the king’s quarters just to talk and pass time. T’Challa didn’t seem to mind. On one occasion, they found themselves settling into the room _together_ after grilling each other out arguing on the distribution of funds towards demographics deprived of tertiary education. Surprisingly, they just laughed it off afterwards, like a mutual agreement or something. Large, vibranium doors would haphazardly slam out of clumsiness, interspersed with their regretful but mischievous snickers. All too well for Erik, it felt like reliving a childhood he deserved to have.

In all his detachedness, T’Challa was unexpectedly a funny guy. Quiet and modest, but witty all the same. He never failed to retaliate the same side-glance and light smile after a tease. Erik had too much fun roasting the man, be it on his unnecessarily conceited formalities, or just footwear.

"I think that’s too much N’Jadaka." T’Challa scolds with a worried look as Erik sprinkles a bit more cheddar cheese than expected—than _T’Challa_ expected.

They were currently terrorizing the palace kitchen. It was Erik’s proposal to show the older man how to make Macaroni and Cheese. Just for shits and giggles basically. The cooks all looked at them in confusion when they barged in, and per the king’s request, vacated the area soon after. Erik suspects T’Challa did not want to get humiliated for _not_ knowing a basic life skill.

"For real? This is _how_ you make Mac and Cheese bruh." Erik replies without looking up, grating his cheese with immense focus.

"To be completely honest, I did not even know you were supposed to…boil it."

Erik slowly raised his head with an exasperated look. It took everything in T’Challa not to burst out laughing right then and there.

"You have to be fucking with me right now, ain’t no way you’re shoving your spoiled ass in broad daylight. Whatever, just try it for me." He declares, handing the bowl over.

T’Challa eyes the morbid dish suspiciously, but accepts it all the same. " _Bast_ I’m going to die from this."

"Don’t make me feed you." The younger man replies with a teasing smirk.

Despite the prejudice, T’Challa surprisingly found the lump of wheat and dairy to be quite good. But he wasn’t about to tell N’Jadaka that though.

"Hmmm." He jokingly nods while chewing, pretending to contemplate.

"Tell me I’m amazing, come on."

"Well…it’s certainly pleasing to the tongue." T’Challa comments, more to play with his cousin.

"Say shit like that again and I’ma throw you back to the water."

It should say something, how T’Challa doesn’t even flinch at the empty threat. He just licks his lips with a light laugh in lieu of responding, removing any leftover cheese.

It should also say something, how intensely Erik tracks the movement. And without thinking much, he blurts—"What else that mouth do?"

"What?" The king snaps quickly.

"Huh?"

Neither talked about it after.

Slowly but surely, the interaction was blossoming into something both men didn’t want to conclude on. But if they found themselves hotly making-out in the throne room one evening after a particularly rough debate on technological allocation (instead of talking about said feelings), then that’s only for them to know.

Nobody brought it up, but it’s as if no one had to.

Day by day, Erik and T’Challa gradually form a compatible pair. Day by day, Erik began to sleep in T’Challa’s room.

Okay, they fucked. For hours and more actually, finding their bodies connecting to a lull of hugs and caresses immediately right after. Like they could never afford to ignore _that_ part of the routine.

Erik slams the other man into the wall, not even bothering to close the door completely before devouring T’Challa’s mouth like a full-course meal. What a vulture.

"N’Jadaka wha—slow down— _ah!_ "

Erik smirks into the king’s neck, nibbling his way down until the temptingly hot skin’s guarded by royal robes.

"I’ve been waiting for this baby, can’t even argue well now, not with you looking at me like that." He whispers seductively, right to T’Challa’s ear.

"Well, get to it then and carry me."

Erik simpers predatorily as he lifts those alluring thighs up.

If there’s one thing Erik did not expect from this _very_ predictable man, it’s that he can ride a dick for all it’s worth. _Fuck_ , T’Challa in this position was so new to him it’s taking a lot for Erik to not ejaculate so early.

"Where’d you learn to bounce like this baby— _ah shit_." He gasps, throwing his head back as T’Challa clenches around his cock with each pump.

Confusingly, the question made the king flush so deeply, wrapping his arms around N’Jadaka’s neck to hide his embarrassment.

" _Mmm—stop talking_." He pants.

"Nah, shoulda known you were a _slut_ under all this." Erik breathes, expertly running his hands over such smooth and silky skin—those well-defined arms—that plump _ass_.

T’Challa bites his ear as a feisty retort. "There are a lot of things you don’t know about me _N’Jadaka_ …"

 _What the fuck?_ Erik thinks. By then, he can only squeeze the man’s waist and snap his hips up rapidly and angrily. He wants to drill this motherfucker so hard it takes the overconfidence out of him. Wants T’Challa to be so full of something else other than himself.

He specifically hates the fact that he let T’Challa overpower him in _this_ particular setting.

As scheduled, the two settle into a calm thereafter, just lying together, naked and covered in sweat and semen. It’s kind of odd how it was usually in these moments they’d choose to talk about life. After Erik rearranged T’Challa’s organs like that.

"So, tell me _your majesty_ , just how difficult does it feel to be the inheritor of a damn country?" Erik mocks. He was just finishing up on his stories about the dangers of growing up a Black person in America, when he thought of wringing something out of the king as well. As much as he refused to believe the man had any sort of struggle.

"Difficult enough that I rose from the dead and defeated you anyway." T’Challa barks back. A little out of character, but only because he’s bantering.

"That mouth, you learned that shit from me."

"Nothing is as simple as you make it out to be N’Jadaka, I assume you’d know that already. I guess putting on a front too many times for the sake of your people has made it easier for me to not crumble helplessly at every mishappening. But it does bottle up a lot of things." He shares,gazing absentmindedly at the ceiling.

Erik can only stare at his side-profile mutely. Though he does not exactly look.

It’d go on like that throughout the night, promiscuously and _sappily_ learning every nook and cranny of the expanse of their skins. Learning each glint and shine that motivated their eyes. Learning each dip and rise of each other’s voice in both the sultry and slapstick situations. They’d giggle in muffles and pinch each other’s waists, the inside jokes growing by the dawns that pass the same time.

They’d say as much as how they felt as they remain tucked and hidden from the world, protected by not only each other’s bodies and the warm sheets, but by their emotions as well. Shielded byit in a way where Erik believes he deserves this. They lived their lives around these moments…

…And yet, Erik still couldn’t stand to look at T’Challa. Because in the root of it all, he will always be the prized and prodigal son of his father’s murderer. His father, the influence to his becoming, the motivation to his vengeance, the muscle to his weakness. Everything was going so fast Erik forgot to orient himself. There were particular conversations about their families that neither opened up about—because of this reason ultimately. His emotions were currently in conflict, feeling as though this tiny fling with the king was betraying N’Jobu’s legacy.

Despite everything T’Challa had given him, Erik hated himself for the indulgence. Hated that he chose to ignore the thought all those times only if it meant having an aristocrat writhe deliciously beneath him, dazed and deranged over a throbbing cock.

The feelings were all too foreign _and_ similar at the same time. Foreign enough for him to hesitate, and similar enough for him to be _afraid_. It eerily feels like Oakland, California.

And because he has always been known to act instantaneously, Erik sets out to clean-up his own mess. He lived half of his life with only rage anchoring him. Wakanda’s mental-health care system was top tier, but there were just issues he needed to take care of alone. Erik wanted to reset and ask himself who he was—who he was living for. He couldn’t do it here, not with T’Challa and his enticing totality.

So on a particularly quiet Tuesday morning, Erik set to leave, far away on the outskirts of Wakanda. He left his Kimoyo beads and anything else that could trace him back to the palace. Surely no one could know who he was, he is determined to do so. To be sole was all he needed, being around people had drowned him to a point where his identity was as blurred as his purpose.

* * *

It had already been two months.

Two months had passed since Erik’s sudden and mysterious disappearance from the palace. Being the formidable leader that he was, T’Challa handled the situation with usual elegance. He needed his people to be a reflection of peace and order. Submitting to fear would only breed more chaos the king couldn’t afford to begin, not when he has already disappointed the nation twice (with Erik’s tyranny and second-chance at life).

At night when he isn’t so distracted by workloads of diplomacy, T’Challa would wonder where the adrift man was; what he was up to. To him, N’Jadaka was the personification of a hot shower after an exhausting day, ready to engulf the older man with soft hugs and kisses to the temple. T’Challa was back to being alone again apparently.

What’s especially worse, are the doubts at the back of his mind. T’Challa wanted to fully trust N’Jadaka and his actions—wanted to believe the choice to keep him alive was worth it. Regretfully, he still questions whether their service was enough to fix the broken man.

For two months, T’Challa sleeps a restless slumber.

* * *

"My king, I have yet to receive more updates on the lost prince from our team. Until then, a claimed sighting at the borders is our only promising report." Okoye informs one afternoon.

He was careful with inciting the search. There is a certain musing pestering T’Challa, doesn’t know why it crossed his mind, that N’Jadaka did not at all want to be found.

"Thank you General, I will see to it as soon as possible."

It’s not as promising as T’Challa would like to believe.

* * *

After just a couple weeks of living alone in a small hostel near the borders trying to comprehend his situation, Erik concluded two things:

  1. Erik hates T’Challa like he hates the sun.
  2. In that even when he was muted, unavailable, and practically gone, Erik still complained—still longed for him.



* * *

Going back to the palace was a challenge on its own. The guards all give him a telling look, so he has at most only an idea of what was to come. _Was the man really that mad?_ It should be known Erik longs for adventure all the time.

Well, he’s never backed down from a fight. Once arriving, a stone-faced T’Challa immediately greets him.

"Leave us." The king commands everyone else in the room.

"Sup T?" Erik begins with infuriating smugness, like he did not at all know what he did. In honesty, he was in the most nervous of moods—hasn’t felt like that in years. But Erik built himself from the ground up, and a bravado was all that harbored him sometimes. This wasn’t difficult to mask.

"We have given you everything N’Jadaka—"

"You’re just saying that cause you in-love with me."

T’Challa closes his eyes, breathes deeply to calm himself. "I only ask for your compliance N’Jadaka, you have marked Wakanda’s history greatly. It is _my_ responsibility to make sure you are in great condition especially around our people—"

"Tell me cuz, did I ask you to save me? Talking all this shit, it was _you_ who gave me the second-life I never asked for!—I should’ve been dead right now if this is all I’m going to get!" The younger man roars. He didn’t want to deal with this, not now when he just made-up his mind on coming back.

"Man, fuck this. Fuck you! " He continues after a few pants, turning to exit out the throne room indignantly.

Gyrating back to deliver a cocky, final retort, Erik spits "Don’t forget you was the one begging for my dick."

Erik realized then and there that this was precisely why he couldn’t stand to look at T’Challa all those times. Like the sun, he couldn’t get too close or it’d scald him raw.

* * *

Erik sits alone, staring at the Wakandan sunset.

He feels emptier than the first time he’d been there, like the spear to the chest was finally removed—plucked like the nuisance of a splinter, all while ready to claim eternal peace. Only no one’s around to stop him now.

And it somehow makes everything worse.

Erik doesn’t know why he’d gone up to watch the sunset after their altercation, his legs had just brought him there for some reason.

He thinks a blunt spear through the chest would’ve been perfect this time; chafing its way in first, rubbing repeatedly against internal flesh like a reminder of the moment. The least it could do was ground him.

For the second-time that day, Erik finds himself contemplating on his relationship with T’Challa.

He recalls how he hated the man like he hates the sun. In that he never looked at him except in annoyance and frustration. Squinting his eyes and shielding away from his glow felt intrinsic.

Yet, he basked in his warmth too; T’Challa was the last face he saw before utter darkness, and the first one upon awakening. T’Challa in front of him felt like hope. Not to mention he was undeniably hot.

T’Challa gave him life—gave him a purpose even he deemed himself unworthy of. T’Challa believed in him when no one else did, like the sun saying _I’m here, get up, and we will try again_.

"I thought I’d find you here."

The voice startles Erik despite its softness. He didn’t dare respond.

T’Challa bends down gracefully beside him, and nothing could explain how just his presence is wholly relieving to Erik.

With a deep breath, he finally turns to _look_ at the man.

For the first time, he realizes how unimaginably beautiful T’Challa is; bright, brown eyes and sweeping, long eye-lashes. His posture, so regal and his smile, so dainty. His cheekbones reflect the light, ornamented by glowing swirls of blazing red and orange. It reminds him of something, almost like—

"I’m sorry." He croaks feebly, stopping his train of thought. Erik doesn’t know if it’s unlike him or true to him. Doesn’t know if he had just been weak all along.

T’Challa shakes his head with a smile. It’s downright petty how much Erik’s heart flutters at it. It’s absolutely cliché to have a crush on this type of man.

"We’ll figure something out." The king says calmly, and it’s still immensely captivating. T’Challa’s just so damn good at assurance. It reminds Erik of something—almost like T’Challa was the sun.

Erik recalls how he said he never bothered to look at T’Challa, for he reminded him too much of the sun: harshly bright, irritating, _strong_.

Erik never bothered to look at T’Challa until almost the end, when everything around him was gradually closing to pitch black.

And in the enchanting surreality of the sunset, he wonders how he’d never seen him before _._

_Yes, T’Challa was too much like the sun._


End file.
